<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Maria by writeronaceiling</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127748">Maria</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeronaceiling/pseuds/writeronaceiling'>writeronaceiling</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Peaky Blinders (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>18+, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Character of Color, NSFW, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Racism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:54:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,554</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeronaceiling/pseuds/writeronaceiling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Maria Shelby is laid eyes upon, she’s got a knife six feet deep in a man’s side. Said man is currently sprawled on their side, a pool of blood glistening below him, twitching. Maria herself is keeled over on the floor, clutching the worn knife handle, gazing calmly. It’s Arthur Senior and Polly who find her like this. </p><p>- In which the notorious Shelby family find themselves with an additional sibling, Maria, who in turn finds herself entangled with one Alfie Solomons. High drama follows, naturally.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alfie Solomons &amp; Original Character(s), Alfie Solomons &amp; Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended </p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this. </p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter. </p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular. </p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I.</p><p> </p><p>The first time Maria is laid eyes upon, she’s got a knife six feet deep in a man’s side. Said man is currently sprawled on their side, a pool of blood glistening below him, twitching. Maria herself is keeled over on the floor, clutching the worn knife handle, gazing calmly. It’s Arthur Senior and Polly who find her like this.</p><p>Two more bodies are behind this man. The woman is unmistakably Maria’s mother, with her cigar-coloured skin and softly curled her. She is also dead. She’s collapsed over a chair, hair cascading to the ground, two gaping bullet holes riddling her chest.  </p><p>A darker-skinned man with a chasm-like mark in <em>his</em> lower abdomen is beside her. A golden band adorns his left ring finger: <em>the pillock she married then</em>, Arthur thinks, gazing at his one-time lover briefly, until even he is overcome by a fresh wave of revulsion and must look away lest he adds to the carnage with a fresh pile of upchuck.</p><p>Polly has been staring resolutely at the blood-splattered wall since they’d entered. Thankfully, they are here ahead of the police, what with Arthur’s contact alerting him to a ruckus near to his daughter’s home. For once, he had heeded the warning and come in search of Maria immediately. She is still on her haunches – the coffee-coloured hand that grips the knife handle does not shake; indeed, she does not even seem to care that her hair is plastered to her forehead not with sweat, but blood. “Jesus Almighty,” Arthur curses. Maria’s eyes are very brown; wide and still. Unnerving. She does not seem to care that she has killed a man or that this man has killed her parents – no, no, that’s not true either; Maria <em>does</em> care; but she is a child, barely ten years old. In many ways, she does not know the gravity of what she has done. Eventually, Polly breaks the silence, “We can’t leave her here like this – she’ll have to go home with you. It’ll be easy to hide we were here, no one knows she’s yours… and the police don’t care for her sort anyway. The rest can be worked out. We’ll work it out.” Ever the planner, Pollyanna. Even confronted with a sight like this, her mind barrels forward, rearranging things to match a suitable outcome.</p><p>Arthur is just trying to brace himself against nausea, no longer able to stand the sight before him at all, trying not to buckle and violently heave. <em>God, it stinks in here</em>. Jesus, how the fuck is Maria just sitting there? Speaking of, it takes them hours to get her to unclench the knife, a lot of quiet coaxing and explaining, delicately trying to help her see that <em>Arthur</em>, not the other man, is her actual father.</p><p>It’s when Arthur’s contact brings news of the police finally approaching that Maria startles and climbs to her feet. Her knees and ankles pain uncomfortably from how she’s been hunched over that man’s body all morning, but she thinks she’ll be able to get a move on. Police are bad. Every ten-year-old mixed-race girl like her knows this. Mum told her to always run from policemen; to go with an “Arthur”, a pale man, if something goes wrong… This must be that Arthur. She has to go. Maria turns looks at her mother and stepfather one last time, grief and sadness and anger at their fate rioting in her. She has to go, now. She knows that there is no more Maria Carpenter; what she does not know is that Maria Shelby will take her place.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended </p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this. </p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter. </p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular. </p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>II.</p><p> </p><p>Being a Shelby is… odd, to say the least. For one, Maria transitions from being an only child, in a quiet working-class household, to being the third eldest of four children in another working - class household – well, four until she turned up.</p><p>The house is riotous, chaotic. At dinner they scamper under the tables and fling potatoes at one another. It could be any one of them: Ada, Tommy, John or little Arthur, they all possess that self-same talent for carnage. Her… siblings. <em>Siblings</em>. The word has a funny taste in her mouth. Metallic, like when you bite the inside of it and blood gushes in. Still, they’re not a pain. There was some staring at first – wide eyed and with heads cocked sideways in confusion, like they’d met an apparition rather than a new sister. Well, she <em>is</em> different. Her skin confirms it. But so are they – they’re Romani. She’s Romani, too, now. Maria had found their traditions deeply perplexing at first, especially when weighed against the Obeah of her mother’s region. Still, she tries. She learns their language in halting, unsteady sentences, and tries to participate in the rituals. The dancing was nice.</p><p>Her siblings are nice too. Ada holds her hand and giggles at funny things with her when they are in the countryside with their fellow Romani people. Little Arthur is sweet and always shares his desert with her if there isn’t enough for all of them. John, she delights in winding up – he has a temper more volatile than petrol over a fire, and she teases him until he goes bright red, then gleefully socks him over the head and runs off. But it is Tommy that she is inseparable from. He is the quietest, and hardest to gauge. But he seems to understand her. There is only a partial softness to him; when he wants something done, his eyes turn flinty and hard, much the same as her own.</p><p>They play chess together with Arthur’s beat up, probably stolen, set. Checkmate is a hard position to get Tommy into. Maria always feels a thrill when she wins, though she doesn’t win as much as she’d like to. No one else beats Tommy, though. Only her. And whenever she does, Tommy smiles softly and his eyes glimmer – just like hers.</p><p>Right now, though, they’re all milling around the dining room table, awaiting dinner. Her siblings’ Mum – she too, is gentle, and never looks at Maria strangely – needs assistance carving the chicken. She wants one of her children to assist her (and isn’t it funny how that now includes Maria too?). Maria hops up immediately and offers to help. Cue staring. Maybe it’s because she has to wield a knife to carve? After all, it is yet another thing that marks her out in her perpetual state of being a Shelby and not-a-Shelby all at once. She is the only one of them to have killed a man.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended </p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this. </p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter. </p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular. </p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p><p>Chapter note: This chapter is set in the First World War, but its historical accuracy is iffy - I have manipulated details to further the plot.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>III.</p><p>Jesus, you kill a guy <em>once</em> when you’re ten years old… and find yourself always in the deep end of weird shit thereafter. As if this bloody war isn’t crappy enough, she’s stuck with the other nurses in a trench, in the middle of fucking Turkey. Their ambulance had overturned due to the storm. The soldiers they’d been sent to help had either bled out despite Maria and the others’ best efforts to stabilise them, or drowned as the trenches became waterlogged and flooded. Maria, the two nurses left behind and a handful of soldiers had made a mad dash for No Man’s Land – the only spot left to guarantee their safety until the water tided over – then back to the trenches.</p><p>Krauts had shot at them as they retreated, fucking violated the rules of No Man’s Land and Maria had very nearly gotten nicked on the shoulder by a stray bullet. But they’d made it back in their waterlogged uniforms, with the nurses still clutching their practically useless medical kits. How did you attend to an injured soldier with soggy bandages and wet thread? Maria has a steady hand, but she can picture the thread manically wobbling in her hands as she desperately tries to weave it through the needlepoint. By then the poor man would be dying at her feet for sure, twitching grossly as he convulsed to death, or spitting out ribbons of blood or turning a deep blue-purple.</p><p> Not for the first time, Maria finds herself eyeing Alfie’s bayonet and rifle interestedly, pondering how different things would be if she was a soldier like him. Make no mistake, she’s a great nurse, plenty good at keeping a bastard alive, but she has a sneaking suspicion that she’d be equally good at killing. Killing was more useful anyhow, at least it accomplished something.</p><p>Take this godforsaken mission.</p><p>Nurses weren’t often in the trenches for as long as she’d been. It was meant to be a simple exercise, in and out, tend to the wounded, leave medical supplies there for the men to hoard and back to the hospital. No one had foreseen that heavy rains and flooding would keep her and the fellow nurses trapped there for over two months, trying desperately to fend off Krauts, and effectively signing the death warrants of the injured men they’d been sent to save.  Still, if anything makes it worth it, Alfie does.</p><p>Maria is no fool – she knows there’s no time for softness in war. But he’s decent, at least to her (she’s seen him beat a fellow soldier to a bloodied mass of limbs for calling her a "darkie" though honestly, she could have done that herself, even though it would have cost her her position) and… and she feels warmer inside when he’s near. He reminds her of an amalgamation of her brothers, only she’s never looked at her brothers the way she sometimes looks at him, in her less cautious moments.  At times she swears he looks <em>back</em> at her with the same light in his eyes. Ah, fuck. She shouldn’t think about any of it, just stay alive and get out of this goddamn trench if they’re able to, if anyone ever returns for them. </p><p>The weather reminds her of Birmingham – it’s permanently grey and rainy, and that hurts. Thinking about Tommy (he and John and Arthur are so <em>far</em> from her, fighting in France) and the others hurts even more.</p><p>It’s Alfie who wakes her from this reverie. He comes to sit alongside her, grimly clutching his bayonet and rifle. “You alright?” She isn’t, she won’t be so long as they’re at war, but it’s nice of him to pretend. She decides to pretend as well, “I’m always alright, Alf.”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended</p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this.</p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter.</p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular.</p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>IV.</p><p>The war has changed them all.</p><p>Once they’re all home, it’s bleedingly obvious, pardoning the pun. Arthur can barely function, barely get his thoughts and brain chemistry to cohere without the obfuscating presence of alcohol. He’s essentially regressed into a pre-teen. John has lost his naivete and his wife, so he chooses to further lose himself in the arms of other women. And Tommy… as usual they have mirror reactions to the war. Each one of them emerges from it changed, each of them has killed. Maria feels most of the time like she’s been sharpened against a whetstone a thousand times over. She’s been made razor edged beyond belief by the war and she emerges from it with an equally sharpened appetite – she’s out for blood now.</p><p>While Tommy and Arthur build their busines on trickery and gleaning quick profits hers is built on subterfuge. She runs a network of spies and enforcers straight out of her mother’s quarter – in exchange for resources and opportunity. The authorities think little of her sort, leaving her free to run her business with something like wild abandon, and even freer to dispose of her enemies as she pleases.</p><p>She’s oddly grateful to the man who murdered her family: he taught her not merely <em>how</em> to kill, but that it was natural and easy. At least, it is plenty natural and easy for her to do now.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended</p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this.</p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter.</p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular.</p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>V.</p><p> </p><p>The first time she sees him in Birmingham is at the Garrison. She’s shocked, not merely at the sight of an all too familiar broad brimmed hat and prayer shawl, but that he would come so soon after rejecting Tommy’s deal. She feels other things too, but those are a lot harder to decipher. Tommy’s going to be pissed beyond belief. Still… why trouble him so soon? Perhaps Alfie’s here to accept the deal – perhaps he’s here for her – No. Not that. <em>Shut up Maria</em>, <em>do what you usually do</em>. She does that, smokes and drinks in a sullen corner, swaying calmly, fighting off random bursts of fevered heat exploding through her at random.</p><p>How the fuck hasn’t he been thrown out yet? How hasn’t Tommy noticed? How did he even get here, from London, so quickly? How – <em>So much for do what you usually do</em>. It is as she’s turning that something blocks her path, coming up to stop directly in front of her left foot. Maria blinks down at a black rod. A cane. Only one person had entered with a cane, and she’d know if there was a Peaky Blinder with a cane. Rather viciously, she wants to snap it in half. The other half of her, coursing with heat, wants to do something altogether different, and altogether immoral with it. Or perhaps just with its owner.</p><p>She looks up and he’s staring straight down at her – his eyes haven’t lost any of their weird luminescence. They’re still glass green, still set into a face capable of contorting with viciousness. A pity viciousness has always attracted her. He reaches up to tip his hat forward, “Shalom, Maria.” The words are spoken so softly; they’re a bit like the softness hidden away for her behind his mostly shit-eating countenance. That same softness seems to travel across her, wrapping her up gently. She just stares, drinking him in and still unsure how he got in, how Tommy hasn’t thrown him out yet. This was dangerous; there’ll be whispers about this stunt in a few hours no doubt. She’ll have to see how many of them her people can quash. Then why does she also feel elated? He’s here, herehereherehere, in front of her.</p><p>Someone pulls her arm hard, hard enough to jostle her slightly. The fever dream breaks. Maria turns and scowls at the attendant who pulled her, only half listening to their apologies. Some supply issue around the back of the Garrison – needs to be seen to immediately – sigh. Maria dismisses the attendant and turns back to Alfie. “I’m needed elsewhere. Goodbye…” her mouth feels like a desert suddenly, and as heavy as lead. She tries again, “Goodbye, Mr. Solomons.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended</p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this.</p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter.</p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular.</p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p><p>Chapter Note: Explicit/NSFW content abounds</p><p>Canon? - don't know her.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>VI.</p><p>It doesn’t take her long after the encounter at the Garrison to go in search of Alfie. For the most part, he is easy to find. Her network returns with his address – or one of them anyway – in under a week. The address in question is outside of Camden, located in Greenwich. She’s not too sure what he has need of it for – no smuggling or illegal rum distillery is to be found in Greenwich, nor are any callers, womanly or otherwise, reported. Not even Olly has been seen at it, as only <em>one</em> strapping Jewish gentleman is seen occasionally coming and going. Still, no one buys a property such as this address for recreation. Tommy certainly hadn’t bought his estate off of that lordling simply to live in a quieter area than Small Heath. Still, it doesn’t do to compare them, her Tommy and her Alfie. They are both bastions in her mind but they each occupy such wide footing that… well. It just seems harder for them to coexist than say, John and Alfie. John is a fool at the best of times, with obvious vices. Tommy is no such fool; nor is Alfie. Anyway, she’s here now, facing this expansive yet public home – white, clearly Edwardian, but surrounded by others just like it, as most of London’s suburbian homes are. Middle class.</p><p> Maria instinctively pulls her wide-brimmed hat down and pats down the veil-like covering hiding her face. In Birmingham, the title of Shelby sister protects her, as do her own guards and spies. But she came to London all alone, and a dark-skinned, well-dressed woman would attract attention here. She doesn’t want word getting out to the authorities, or worse yet, her family, just yet. That meant donning this ridiculous veil as though she was in mourning. Still, she’s here now.</p><p>Maria pushes the gate to the cavernous home open and enters around a side entrance, expertly, but rather easily picking the lock. The instant she enters a gun is cocked to her temple. Maria freezes, goes ramrod stiff and straight but turns her head to gaze leeringly at Alfie from under her veil covering. Then she lashes out with the bag dangling off of her arm (its outer lining is sharpened metal) and whips him over her temple. The movement is quick and Maria surprisingly nimble enough, even with her sight partially obscured, that Alfie doesn’t react accordingly. In the split second that Alfie is flailing backwards for, she considers not reaching for the gun in question but then decides that would be poor form. She yanks the gun from him by its butt, careful to maintain pressure on the trigger (bloody fool actually cocked the thing) and places it instead to <em>his</em> temple. As she peels her veil away and the world turns from an ensconced black mesh to full colour, she has to blink, but her grip on the gun does not falter. Alfie is kneeling laughing at her feet – he <em>must</em> have known it was her? No matter. She wasn’t concealing herself from him anyway. He’s dressed plainly, in his usual undershirt and waistcoat. He even has those ridiculous reading glasses on and an apron slung around his waist.</p><p><em>Shit</em>, is that the smell of bread? Her mouth waters involuntarily – she hadn’t eaten much before this trip. She uncocks the revolver and tosses it into his lap without a word, sauntering off in the direction of that lovely bread. Alfie’s kitchen is massive and gleaming, with a lot of modern checkered black and white tiling. The oven door is indeed open. Maria kneels and retrieves a steaming loaf of bread, before hunting around for a knife and butter. She finds them easily enough – he has a drawer-like pantry built in opposite the oven, and a lovely kitchen table directly in the centre between the two; there’s a wooden cutting board already on the table. Maria cuts into the freshly baked loaf, butters a slice, prepares an extra slice for him (he doesn’t take it) and eats quietly, leaning against the cupboard, watching Alfie with a cool gleam in her eye.</p><p>For his part, he’s staring back at her in amusement, fondly watching her eat. By the time she’s halfway through the loaf, she still hasn’t said a word to him. Alfie tires of the subterfuge quickly – he is not a patient man – and bursts out, “Fucking ‘ell Maria, there are easier ways to surprise a bloke.”  In his broad, gravelly Cockney accent, fucking sounds more like “fak-ing.” She laughs (although, in her Brummie accent, the word laugh comes out as “laff”, so touché) and licks at her last slice of bread, not missing the way Alfie’s eyes drill holes into the spot where her tongue is. He seems less grumbly than usual – Alfie has the timbre of a Protestant prophet on the best of days, and he talks incessantly where Maria is almost supernaturally quiet. But he also <em>knows</em> that she isn’t given to excessive talking. That said, he looks like he has a tirade about to come out any second now. Maria’s so buoyed by excitement at the whole situation that she starts counting… <em>3, 2, 1</em>… and right on cue, he bursts out, “Fucking hell. What are you doing here, Maria? You come in ‘ere, eh, dressed like a bloody bride of death, licking at my bread, what, what the hell is it that you’re doing here, mate?” She’s not really listening to him ramble (it’s less coherent than usual) but god the way he calls her mate like she’s just an acquaintance of his, it makes her feel warm. By the end of his tirade, she’s still reclining against the kitchen cupboards and merely shrugs in response to his many questions.</p><p>Alfie huffs, “Fuck this, I’m making bread,” and wow he is really committed to his “I’m angry” playact.  He goes in search of dough and begins kneading at it – despite his seemingly perplexed state, his movements are precise and steady. Maria just likes watching his impressive forearms flex and shift as he kneads – he’s got that bracelet of entwined gold and silver still on his wrist, several rings on the other hand. His penchant towards jewellery always delighted her. Finally, she offers to help, “Can I knead too?”</p><p> He squints up at her. “Yeah, suppose so. Alright; come here.” She goes willingly, limply pretends not to know what to do with her hands, holds them up beseechingly. Like him, she has a ring on her right forefinger. Alfie’s scowl doesn’t lessen, but his eyes do glint as though he finds the whole ruse highly amusing. He raises his hand to hers, palm flat up. Maria offers her assent by taking his hand and says quietly, “I’m terrible at baking. Get as close as you need.” Alfie’s scowl turns slightly wolfish, he pulls her into him by the wrist and suddenly their bodies are very nearly flush together and all of him is very nearly pressed to her back.</p><p>She is a few centimetres taller than him, so his head can slot easily into the crook of her neck. Still, he doesn’t touch her any more than that, instead reaching around to grip her wrists and direct her hands accordingly onto the bread dough. Maria feels a wildfire rage inside her. God, does she really have to <em>ask</em> him? How embarrassing. After a few useless tries at kneading the bread – she’s honestly no good at it, even with Alfie gently directing the path of her hands – she gives up and turns around. She isn’t quite inside his arms – he’s not close enough for that, not yet. He’s still watching her with that self-serious, slightly smug expression. Maria addresses him regardless, “I don’t know why I’m here… but I know who I’m here for.” It’s a classic non-answer, but he seems mostly satisfied by it, squinting across at her. “And your family?” Ah yes, there is still the matter of his allegiances… but not today, not right now. She lifts her shoulders limply, “What family?”  The words stab as her insides; they feel traitorous. But gazing at Alfie, her throat seizing with emotion, they aren’t exactly untrue either.</p><p>Alfie softens at her disavowal; his eyes search her face restlessly, “What do you want, Maria?” She simply puts her fingers to his mouth. Her hand is tremoring slightly against his lips. “You, Alf,” she says quietly.  Alfie softens even further, the scowl of earlier replaced by something gentle and light. “Alright, ‘en.”</p><p>The next instant they’re kissing, arms fully around each other, Maria’s back against the kitchen table now. Her hands find purchase in his thick, combed hair, at first; the only purchase he’s gaining is that of his tongue in her mouth. It quests around a little, drawing a slight whine from her, but is otherwise heavenly. She hasn’t kissed him like this since just after the war. Eventually, once she’s too lightheaded to even maintain her grip on him, she breaks away, breathing heavily; he simply attacks the column of her neck, with a variety of kisses, soft and peppered, long and insistent, then warm and open-mouthed. As he works his way from her neck to shoulder, her jacket is pulled off and flung aside, her blouse yanked out of her suit’s skirt – at this she responds in kind, tugging at his waist coat, until he relents and laughingly loops his arms through it, then lets her pull his dirtied undershirt over his head. He has a column of wiry hair adorning his chest – but his scraggly beard alone was proof of his hairiness. The sight of it makes her wet. Maria reclines as he shucks his pants and undergarment off; he tugs her skirt and pantaloons off, then her brassiere, with feverishly eager hands. The ridiculous veil comes off last.</p><p>Then their mouths are joined again, inseparably, as though one wishes to consume the other whole. Except his hands quest too now, jerking at her one breast lightly, and massaging the other much the same as he had kneaded that dough. Maria’s eyes roll back slightly at the comparison. She braces her arms on the kitchen table breathlessly, happy to be serviced. “We’re not fucking on top of a pile of dough,” she warns. The warning is enough for Alfie to pause in affront. He leans around her to scoop up the dough and drop it onto the tiles beside them.  “And now?” he challenges. Maria simply smirks and lies back, legs pliant. A few moments pass, then Alfie’s warm hands close around her thighs. Her breathing quickens in anticipation and then – starlight; <em>shit! </em>His tongue is inside her now, questing again, seeking out every bit of her. She doesn’t last long but is too euphoric after coming to actually be annoyed by this.</p><p>As it turns out, they don’t fuck properly after all; it’s just lazing around in his bed and a ton of foreplay. Maria counts three orgasms, which is a world more than she’d had before coming (heh) here, and highly unusual for her in quick succession.</p><p> Sprawled across his chest, in his bed the next morning, she accuses, no states, “You sold out us to Sabini. For Sabini. Prick.” Alfie resumes stroking her back; the look on his face is contemplative but not penitent, “Maria…”</p><p>God, she hopes she never has to choose between them. The way he says her name alone makes her want to pick him and be done with it. But her family…</p><p>“I serve myself,” Alfie says plainly. She understands this. After all, her enterprises work on the behalf of, but not at the behest of, the Shelby Company Limited.</p><p>“Only one Shelby served in the trenches with me.” Alfie continues, disentangling from her to lean forward and press his face into the crook of her neck. Her arms come to wrap around him; it is now her under him.</p><p> “I’ll never sell <em>you</em> out, love.”</p><p> She’s too selfish: she wants her family and him. But for now, it’s enough and as close to those three words as they’ll get. She tightens her arms around him, pressing him closer, letting the hard, bulky edges of him envelop her (and his literal hardness – god, Alfie, right now?) and wishes this moment could be without end.            </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended</p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this.</p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter.</p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular.</p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p><p>Chapter Note: This timeline is definitely wonky and occasionally asynchronous</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>VII</p><p> </p><p>Tommy</p><p> </p><p>By the time Maria arrives for their meeting with Aunt Pol, Tommy is well through his third cigarette of the evening. Maria strolls into the family meeting room and discards her coat onto John’s usual chair and says in that laconic way of hers, “Sorry. Work ran overtime.” Tommy lazily exhales a puff of smoke and nods his understanding. Polly says nothing; she has no need to. Maria looks from Polly to Tommy for a moment, notably not taking a seat. Tommy regards his sister. They’re both here – he and Polly – because Maria has asked for a second meeting regarding the Camden deal. Tommy assumes she’s learnt vital information that they need to consider, or a secret they can use to strong arm Alfie Solomons, the head of London’s Jewish gangster enterprise.</p><p>Maria doesn’t disappoint, announcing breezily, “I have news!”</p><p>Polly chimes in sardonically, “You’re getting married!” to which Maria’s face twists in revulsion, “God, no, Pol.” She takes a breath, but doesn’t speak for several moments. Suddenly Tommy feels a flare of annoyance. What is she taking so long for? Maria is someone who spares no punches. This is unusual.</p><p>Suddenly, she lets rip, “It’s about Alfie Solomons.” She still hasn’t sat down, Tommy notices.  “I have some information you need to be aware of before negotiations commence. We have a history, he and I. We were involved. I’m not sure what this has to do with his telegram, if anything, but you’ll need to consider it as a factor.”</p><p>Surprise doesn’t begin to describe the riot of emotions that explode and war inside of Tommy – he’s deeply taken aback, affronted and plain confused all at once. Polly, on the other hand, bursts into peals of laughter, and shakes her head almost admonishingly, before growing serious once more. “Bloody hell. I was wondering when you’d get around to it, Maria! Of all the men to choose… How do you know him?”</p><p>Finally, with a look of great relief on her face, Maria takes her usual seat. The relief on her face fades and grows far away and mired as she answers Polly, “We meet during the war – deployment in the trenches. We were together for a while after the war.” A while? A while? Finally, Tommy speaks, in that cruel, calculating tone he reserves for his dealings. He has never needed to use it on her before. “Maria – ”</p><p>He and Polly speak as one, “ – you were gone for six months.”</p><p> It was true, she had disappeared briefly at the end of the war before returning home. They’d had nothing but telegrams to go on during her absence. Tommy remembers the worry and panic that had engulfed the family then and how, when she’d returned, the happy, and oddly violent, sister he’d once known was no longer there. Like him, she was angry and colder, more menacing, determined to cut her teeth in the world of criminal enterprise. Not only because of the war though, unlike him. Because of whatever had happened with Solomons too. Tommy knew, without needing to say anything, that she would never share what had happened during that time if she didn’t need to. He could see it now, the testiness residing under her calm, unshakable façade.</p><p>“Did he –?”</p><p>“No.” Maria says sharply. “Alfie didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”</p><p><em>Alfie</em>, Tommy thinks, <em>she still calls him Alfie</em>.</p><p>“Do you love him?” Polly intones, direct and to the point.</p><p> More silence. Then, “I don’t know. I might have. But I’m not going to place that above this family, if that’s what you’re implying.”</p><p>“Good.” Polly sounds satisfied. “Do you think it’s a game? The telegram, Solomons approaching us for protection?”</p><p>   Maria sounds contemplative – he can’t see her or Polly, his eyes are screwed shut now, and anger is pulsing through him more fervently with each passing second – “I’m not entirely sure. I considered it; after all, he knows I’m a Shelby. We had an agreement to stay outside of each other’s business dealings; my network is left untouched by a merger between his men and our Blinders. I’m not an intermediary either… unless it’s needed.”</p><p>“It bloody is not,” Polly all but hisses.</p><p>Maria replies laughingly, “Alright.”</p><p>Polly’s chair – the sound is coming from opposite him, so it must be Polly’s – scrapes the floor and she seems to leave with a final, “Thank you for telling us, Maria. I trust you’ll handle this.”</p><p>“I know that secrets are useless in this family,” is Maria’s halting answer.</p><p>Yes. They damn well are.</p><p>Once Polly has gone Tommy rounds on Maria. As usual, she’s already five steps ahead of him, with a fierce, “I don’t <em>have</em> to explain myself to you Tommy. But I will if you want me to.”</p><p>A quiet huff, then, “What is it with my sisters and dangerous men, eh?”</p><p>“Are you angry with me?” He considers it for a brief moment, but the anger he feels is brief and transitory in relation to how much he relies on her, how much he cares. “Yes… and no. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His eyes open and he can see her pacing from side to side, in strong, sure turns. Pacing is another thing she never does.</p><p>Maria sighs, “I considered, consider, it a closed chapter. I didn’t think I needed to share it with anyone unless it became relevant. Now it has.”</p><p>Bullshit. Tommy doesn’t buy any of that – Maria had told him about the trenches, about bloodless bodies and the men she rued not being able to save. If she hadn’t shared this it was because she was still hiding something else about her time with Solomons, or because she still cared, possibly still loved Solomons. Or both. That hurt Tommy. Not the fact that his sister loved or had loved a man – he didn’t own her, after all, but that the emotion she felt was too much for her to bear sharing it with even him.</p><p>Furthermore, he had two sneaking suspicions. First, that he wouldn’t forgive this slight, her not telling him, as easily as he ought to. Secondly, that whatever Maria felt for Solomons – love, hatred, lust – would complicate any dealings they had with the Camden gang in future. Still, the possibility of striking a deal with the Camden gang… <em>don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Tommy</em>.  And Maria knew Solomons. That could prove eminently useful.</p><p>His decision made, Tommy changed his tack there and then, “So, what’s he like, your feller?”</p><p>Maria’s brow twitches, “Unpredictable. Moody. Tommy, be careful. Just because he cared about me once doesn’t mean he won’t cut your throat if it suits him. Watch out.”</p><p>“Do you think using you as an intermediary would soften him?”</p><p>“Not a chance. He’s a pain in the backside, and the head of the Camden gang for good reason.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>They lapse into silence.</p><p>“I’m not angry you know. You’re forgiven for not telling me before now,” he says, in as merciful a tone he can muster, which is to say, not very merciful a tone at all.</p><p>Maria snorts and looks at him as if she’s been insulted, “Yes, you are angry, and no, I’m not really forgiven.”</p><p>Tommy grins, “Yes, I am angry. And no, you’re not quite forgiven.”</p><p>After a moment’s pause, he adds, “You will be forgiven though.”</p><p>Maria just snorts in disbelief again. </p><p> _____</p><p> </p><p>When Alfie pulls his stunt at the Garrison, it’s Arthur who alerts him. Their eldest brother storms up to him, face awash with anger, and practically spits, “Tommy!” In his Brummie brogue, Tommy’s name is more “Tom-may” than “Tom-me”. “Some bloke was sniffing around Maria earlier; the Solomons bloke you tried a deal with in Camden from the looks of it. I sent a girl to get her away from him. Bloody pillock,” Arthur blusters; his face has turned very red. Tommy disarms him as carefully as he can – Maria would die of embarrassment at Arthur’s burly, older-brother-esque protectiveness, and checks on Maria from their vantage point across the Garrison. She’s no longer in her usual spot. Tommy blinks rapidly – she had just been there, idly twirling a cigarette.</p><p>Suddenly Maria’s voice permeates the air behind him, knife-edged, “I take it that it was one of the two you who had the bright idea to separate me from one Alfie Solomons?”</p><p>Arthur splutters indignantly, “Oi, Maria, listen –”</p><p>“Oh, fuck off, Arthur!” Maria spits. “I don’t tell you what to do with your cock; you don’t police who I talk to, alright?”</p><p>Arthur turns a deeper shade of red in embarrassment – his penchant towards sex workers is an open secret in Birmingham. He’s more embarrassed to be told off by his sister than anything.</p><p>Again, Arthur clenches his jaw and fists. He really is fiery red now.</p><p>“Arthur. Leave her be. In fact, Maria and I have much to discuss.” Tommy intervenes. Neither Maria nor Arthur is above all out brawling and Tommy wishes to spare himself that sight – in fact, he’s already seeing a ten-year-old Maria and fifteen-year-old Arthur madly kicking and scratching at one another. Maria had managed to draw blood that day, and their Mum had been furious. Thus, he has no doubt Maria would sooner break her wrist than give Arthur the satisfaction of policing her. Tommy hands Arthur a stern look, and points to the door, “Out.”</p><p>Arthur angrily grabs a bottle of liquor and storms off, roaring, “And fuck the lot of you!”</p><p>Tommy whistles and dispatches two Blinders to follow his wayward brother on his way out.</p><p>As soon as Arthur’s been dismissed, he addresses Maria, “I’m removing you from this operation. In all capacities.”</p><p>Maria doesn’t even seem angry. Her reaction is downright indifference, “I honestly don’t know what you mean – I was never involved.”</p><p>Now that Tommy’s finally met Alfie – a blustering, prophesizing madman, in his opinion – he struggles to see the appeal for Maria, or what appeal there must have been. Maria is calm, orderly. She plans to a fault and her plans rarely fail. The only appeal there is to Alfie is that he shares Maria’s penchant towards murder. But murder is nothing new in their line of business. It must be the war, Tommy decides, that brought them together. Perhaps once they were out of immediate danger, the attraction had faded. And if it hasn’t? Alfie is downright <em>mental</em>. A man who hides his criminality behind loud speech making is not one to be trusted by any means, Tommy reasons. How could Maria find anything worth holding onto behind all that bluster? Yet, her indifference troubles him. The mere thought of Maria coupling with a man sits his forehead alight with pain; the logistics of two opposing gang members marrying, her immediate security, it would all be too difficult to organise, even if she wanted it as such. But Maria’s smart. At least he always thought so.</p><p>Maria stays silent.</p><p>Tommy watches her uneasily – he’ll have to keep an eye on her from now on, for certain.</p><p>The thought of surveilling her pains him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended</p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this.</p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter.</p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular.</p><p>Chapter note: this is vaguely NSFW/explicit. </p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <span>VIII</span>
</h1><p>Alfie’s got his head between her thighs again. Not in a sexual way. Just… gently. Actually, no, he’s got a head propped <em>on</em> her thighs. They spend almost every Friday together, celebrating Shabbat. Maria isn’t particularly religious. As a child she was raised a Catholic, but also taught about the Obeah methods of her mother’s native, Jamaica, and after that the Shelby’s Roma culture. Religion is something she associates with hazy sunlit moments in her childhood. It’s not like watching Alfie light the Shabbat candles or don his kippah and prayer shawl. In him, religion is a living testament (when he’s not shoving nails up Italian men’s nostrils, anyway). It’s also power – he runs the Jewish quarter not only thanks to his ruthlessness, but due to his fairly stringent religious observance. Thankfully, he doesn’t mind cohabiting with an unbeliever every once a week, let alone on his holy day. Alfie even comfortably sings the prayers in Yiddish in front of her; sometimes she closes her eyes during them and remembers her mother’s <em>Patois</em> chants.</p><p>Anyway, the Shabbat ritual was a half an hour ago, and Alfie now has his head resting on her thighs on his living room settee, and he’s casually narrating the tale of his mother’s flight from Russia, populating the tale with wild interjections: “So yeah, anyway, there we were–”</p><p>“Alfie.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<em>You</em> weren’t there!”</p><p>“Alright, love, right, me Mum was there, running from ‘em bastards, those bloody inbred Tsars and their kin –”</p><p>Maria swears he gets more cockney whenever he’s relating childhood tales.</p><p>“– and she makes it all the way to bloody Camden, settlers ‘ere, has me and Harry, works her bloody nails red and, well, bloody and –” He pauses for effect.</p><p>Maria knows him well enough to know she’s meant to coax him to the end of the tale, albeit one she’s heard before, “And?”</p><p>“And nothing! She gets fucking nothing, for all that work!”</p><p>Here, Maria simply kisses him to get him to stop talking, “She got you. Harry, too.”</p><p>He snorts, “I’ll cut my brother out of that, yeah?”</p><p>She just giggles and kisses him even harder.</p><p>This continues for a while, until the quiet moment is broken by a telephone call. Alfie extricates himself from her lap, grumbling all the while, and answers it. While he’s answering the message, working through several security codes and then speaking normally, she checks that her garter is still equipped with its usual switchblade and revolver (it is), then sweeps the living room, checking windows, how fortified they are, checking for glimpses of black hats or any unusual passers-by lurking outside.</p><p>He comes back screaming bloody murder: “fucking – tyrannical – bastards –” she catches only snippets as she turns back to face him – the windows are clear anyhow and they are secure (her hand does not let up from her knife though) besides whoever of Alfie’s informants has been instructed to phone this address.</p><p>Alfie’s face is bristling with rage, the prickly hairs of his beard standing on end with the force of his ire. She waits a beat before prompting him for answers, “What happened?”</p><p>All the poetry has drained from his speech, “Sabini. Fucking imbecile cut our deal; my bookies aren’t protected at Epsom anymore.”</p><p>The irony strikes her immediately. Rather than commiserate, she laughs hollowly, and tips a metaphorical hat to the whichever god is responsible now. They know precisely what he’ll be forced to do to rectify this – if Tommy will have him. Maria runs the Jamaican quarter – and Carpenter Holdings. Her hands are tied. She and Alfie have an agreement anyway – they can only advise one another. No further cross pollination of ideas.</p><p>“Try not to fuck up my brother’s dealings this time, eh, love?”</p><p>Alfie’s eyes glint dangerously. She suspects he would prefer to not to be need to be in business with Tommy at all; she also knows that he ought not to double cross the family that are essentially his in-laws now.</p><p>Alfie rocks back on his heels, humming lightly, “fucking poetic, eh?”</p><p>She says no more and knows that he understands – they can’t help one another when their interests clash, and they are forever clashing so long he does business, whether it be the revenging sort or otherwise, with Tommy.</p><p>That’s all right though; this is still Shabbat, still their Friday. Deals and dealings are tomorrow’s business.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter is essentially an alternate imagining of the whole Alfie-Sabini-Tommy-Epsom Races plotline.</p><p>And yes, I call the various gangs' and their dominion quarters.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended</p><p>Content Warning: This fic is most definitely 18+, contains NSFW content, and deals with distressing themes like violence, mental health, racism, childbirth and death/infant death and graphic depictions of violence - if anything is potentially triggering for you, do not read this.</p><p>Chapter Note/NB/TRIGGER WARNING: This is definitely a triggering chapter, and includes the death of a baby. Please don't read this it if it may trigger you. </p><p>Note: The tags serve as general warnings and aren’t necessarily specific to each chapter.</p><p>Some terminology may be considered offensive, but is in keeping with the show’s vernacular.</p><p>Everything has been edited and proofread, but do point out any errors in the comments! (respectfully)</p><p>For Peaky Fans: don’t count on canon for any of this, lol, but the timeline spans seasons 2-3 currently, with a loose observance of the canonical events of those seasons.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>IX</h1><p> </p><p>There’s a knock at the door and as Polly is in the midst of cooking, Maria answers it. In that first instant the world freezes and slows to a shuttering pace, then snaps quickly back into place. Alfie is lying crumpled on their doorstep.</p><p> Maria’s head snaps up to their deserted street – already people are poking their heads out, murmuring in confusion – but her gaze is elsewhere, on the assailants foolish enough the exact this. They can’t have gotten far, perhaps they’ve scampered up across the roof, or fled through a back alley – no, there! Her revolver is out in an instant, firing expertly at the two men strolling past their door at pace. She nicks one in the shoulder, the other clean through his knee. Fools. The one man hasn’t bothered to clean up his blood-stained shirtsleeve cuff. She’s no fool: their linen suits and lack of flat caps would have given them away regardless. They’re not fast enough to escape; well, that and her revolver was wicked fast.</p><p>Only once Maria’s satisfied that they’re crumpled heaps splayed across the gravel, and that other Blinders have been alerted to the problem by her shots and are swarming them, does she turn to Alfie. Polly’s already there, kneeling at her feet, where he lies, checking him over. Maria joins her, retaking his pulse, patting his joints down – he’s a little bloodied, but seems to have no injuries she can’t stitch up or cold press. They haul him in at her command, hastily looping an arm each over their shoulders, then heaving and tugging him through the front door. Polly throws a harried glare over her shoulder at the gawking people of Small Heath. This glare says it all, even communicated across from a few metres. <em>Leave Blinder business to the Blinders</em>. Except that this isn’t really Blinders business either, neither Maria or Polly are wholly sure quite what it is yet.</p><p> They jostle Alfie further inside, then place him in, coincidentally, what used to be Maria’s room and is now merely a spare bedroom. Once he’s on her old bed, writhing slightly with his head lolling backwards in pain, inaudible groans leaving him, Maria hastily strips him down to his undergarments. She orders Polly, “Pol, get the kit. There should be one under the bed. <em>Now</em>, please.” Polly moves swiftly and returns with a medical kit moments later. Alfie has mostly cuts and bruising – good. Whoever did this wasn’t stupid enough to outright maim, or worse yet, assassinate, the head of Camden’s biggest gang. Maria clambers onto the bed to lean over him and studiously pats down his head, feeling for any swelling. There at his nape, a ridge has risen. That explains his disorientation. They must have walloped him well.</p><p>“Polly, wet some of the cloth from the kit, quickly. And get a bottle of rum.” She has to keep him awake. She’s seen soldiers lose consciousness, seemingly innocuously, and never wake. Maria pats at his face, “Alf, Alf, stay awake, love.” His eyes simply continue to flicker dangerously. She tries again, “<em>Prosypaysya. </em>Please, wake up. Prosypaysya, you bastard!”</p><p>After a few more moments in which Maria cradles his head and spits out whatever Russian she’s learnt from him, his eyes flicker more rapidly. Alfie’s chest begins to heave slightly. Words leave him as slightly breathy exhalations, “The – fuck – are – you – speaking – Russian – for?” She’s too relieved to tell him off and starts laughing instead, entirely missing how Polly’s gaze shifts shrewdly between her and Alfie as she returns with the rum and wet cloth. Polly places both alongside Maria on the bed. Maria ignores Polly and keeps an eye on Alfie’s face for a few minutes, tracking his breathing as she does so – a concussion would be detrimental, but he seems conscious, if out of it. Maria reaches for the bottle of rum immediately, and uncaps it, intending to make him drink it, then changes her mind. Rum can have a dulling effect on even the strongest of men.</p><p>“Pol, water please.” Polly goes at once.</p><p>Maria moves from where she’s been kneeling over him to grab the cloth and place it at his neck, praying the swelling will go down. She needs to get onto the cuts. Maria dashes off to clean her hands before stitching him up.</p><p>As she re-enters the room Polly is standing there, guardedly regarding Alfie. Maria dismisses Polly’s suspicion for the moment – she needs to keep him stable and then deal with the pillocks who did this, nothing else. She checks that the equipment has been sterilized and then deftly threads the medical thread through a needle and begins stitching up his cuts. Alfie jerks violently with every second stab of the needle into his skin, and reaches for her shoulder. She ignores his pain with a faint sensation of discomfort roiling in her stomach and continues, not satisfied until every cut has been mended or bandaged. There’s a gash across his stomach, not too deep but too deep for mere stitches. She pours some rum across a bandage from the kit and presses it so his stomach. To his credit, Alfie does not jerk too much, and he certainly doesn’t scream. Maria presses the bandages to his stomach until she’s satisfied that the bleeding has quelled, then swaps them for clean ones. There’s another gash on his left cheek, but that she simply stitches that up. His arms and upper legs are spotted with bruises – Maria assuredly applies cold presses to each of those in the form of the soaked cloths. Finally, she checks again to see if he’s concussed. His eyes are still flickering at least, and he looks more alert than before. She’ll have to keep him awake. She informs Polly of this, “I’ll have to talk to him, at least until he’s properly awake. Check on the men I caught.”</p><p>Polly’s not convinced, “Are you sure he doesn’t need –”</p><p>“No. Sometimes the pain keeps them awake. Go check on those half-soaked pillocks, please.”</p><p>A moment of dissent, of Polly wringing her hands for an instant, then she goes.</p><p>Maria settles on the floor (a better vantage point for getting up and moving around without disturbing him) and tries to dredge up some dramatic tale that will be to his taste. She has a vague recollection of revolutions her mother used to narrate to her. She’s just past the preamble of one such tale when Polly bursts in, “Maria. You need to see this. Now.”</p><p>Maria <em>tsks</em> angrily, “Pol, what the fuck? I can’ leave him now.”</p><p>Polly’s eyes narrow, “He’ll be alright – I’ll watch him. But go to the door at once. There’s something you need to see in the hallway.”</p><p>Maria’s moved by the clear agitation in Polly’s voice; it’s strained and concern is practically wafting off of her. Maria goes to the front hallway (Polly’s shut the door since they were last in the hallway).   </p><p> There’s a cot there. Plain and white.</p><p>  All the air leaves Maria’s body.</p><p> She approaches it amidst the tremors racking her body, peers over into it. There’s a telegram in the centre of the bedding. She picks it up and – shit, her hand’s unsteady, it’s usually never unsteady – reads. The script isn’t English. It looks a bit like the Cyrillic script that she’s sometimes seen in Alfie’s books. She can’t read it. It’s one word, possibly a name. God, at least Polly had had the sense to bring the damn thing inside. She’s going to have too much explaining to do.</p><p>As for the Cyrillic script, the Russian quarter have a firm agreement with Alfie. It can’t be them. Sabini? Possibly. They’ve just overrun his men from Epsom, perhaps this is some type of tacit threat. How would Sabini know? – They were so careful. She was so careful. All for nothing. Still, it doesn’t matter. Someone knows. <em>Someone knows</em>.</p><p>Suddenly she’s on the floor, breathing shallowly, horror filling her from top to bottom.</p><p>Woe… footsteps enter, and a skirt shuffles on the wooden flooring. Maria’s eyes track the sound in a half-aware stupor, coming to rest on Polly’s boots. “Get it out,” she says weakly. “Before the others get home.” Only Polly, Finn and Arthur actually still live there, but any one of her brothers or Ada could turn up on any weekday. Polly steps around her and suddenly the white panelling of the cot is disappearing from view. She distantly watches it leave her field of vision and her horror turns to anger, piping hot. She’ll have blood for this. She will. What the <em>fuck</em> did they think would happen – she’d hand over Carpenter Holdings, or surrender her routes or that the Camden gang would back off? Insanity.</p><p>Maria lies there, prone and seething.</p><p>Polly leaves her be, at least for the time being.</p><p>For Maria, that moment, in which she’s lying prone and growing stiff on the floor, it lasts forever.</p><p>______</p><p> </p><p>After lying down for what feels like an eternity Maria clambers to her feet. She returns to her old room, telegram in hand. Polly’s sitting on a stool, eyeing Alfie with the same suspicion she had earlier. Alfie’s upright in bed, one arm slung behind his head. He looks remarkably well for one who’s taken a beating, and remarkably casual too. Suspicion flares in her at the sight of him. Finally, Maria turns to address Polly, “Give us a minute, yeah?” Polly’s eyes are blazing – with repressed questions Maria knows. They exchange a terse look, but Polly’s still tactful enough not to make any demands in front of Alfie. She sweeps out of the room, and the sight of her skirt trailing behind her strikes Maria as a portent of doom. She turns to Alfie, scans his face tensely. He seems… fine. Maria wonders if perhaps he’d permitted himself to be beaten... But she’ll need more information to confirm that hypothesis.  Time to find out. “What happened?”</p><p>Alfie winces, then scowls. “No happiness that I’m in a piece, eh, love?”</p><p>Maria sighs. She doesn’t have the patience for this right now. “You get any names? Any indication which quarter they work for?”</p><p>Alfie leans back and considers her, “What aren’t you telling me, love?”</p><p>Maria whispers it, “They left a cot at the door. In broad daylight, Alf. And this.” She holds the telegram up for him to see.</p><p>The colour drains from his face, much as it had from hers earlier. “<em>What</em>?”  </p><p>He runs his hand through his suddenly, brow pinched, eyes skittering from side to side and his thinks furiously. Maria just stands and watches him, feeling hollow and angry all at once.</p><p>“Maria come here.” When she begins to shake her head in denial, he says it again, more forcefully, “Come here.”</p><p>She’s afraid of what’ll happen if she does, and refuses again.</p><p>Alfie sighs heavily, brow pinched. “Let me see that telegram.”</p><p>Maria hands it to him but doesn’t stray any nearer. She can’t stand the thought of his concern, and even less the comfort he clearly wants to offer. She needs to plan; to focus on destroying whoever’s dared insult her like this.</p><p>Alfie reads it in an instant – his face doesn’t reveal much. “Ukrainians. Fucking Ukrainians.” Concern seems to have stolen his usual verbosity.</p><p> So, she was correct about the script. That assurance – that at least her mind is still firing on all cylinders even if the rest of her is torn between vehement fury and the urge to fall to pieces – spurs her on, gives her the strength she needs.</p><p>“It’s a clear threat then.”</p><p> Alfie looks at her as though she’s grown a second head, “No, it’s an invitation to a sprightly little dance; of course, it’s a bloody threat.”</p><p>“Don’t belittle me!”</p><p>He’s taken aback by her irritation; his tone softens immediately. “Come here. Please.”</p><p>Maria stubbornly rambles on, “What do they want? My routes? Your bookies? The rum? Is this an invasion, Alf?”</p><p>“You’re not saying the most important thing, Ria.”</p><p>The nickname startles her; she hasn’t heard since the trenches (she’s not given to pet names, really).</p><p>She nods heavily, “They know. I thought we hid it away.”</p><p>“It’s a document, Maria. They’re hard to conceal when you don’t burn them.”</p><p>“Then we should have.”</p><p>“Bollocks. We could never.”</p><p>Her throat seizes. It’s so difficult to say the words, but she needs to. He needs to hear them from her as well. Besides, if the Ukrainians – or at least, their leader – know, then things are serious.</p><p>“Our boy, Alf. Our boy. Do you think…?”</p><p>She doesn’t need to finish the thought. Alfie considers it, his face drawn and pained, “No. Seems like they just found the certificate.”</p><p>She curses. They had made sure to file it at the most obscure home office they could find, far outside of both Camden and Small Heath. And it hadn’t mattered.</p><p>Maria sighs. Finally, having said the words, she can go near him. She goes over to sit alongside him, lays her cheek below his knee, careful of his bruising and bad knee.</p><p>His hand comes down to stroke her hair, light as a feather. The cool texture of his rings passing continually through her hair is nice. It soothes her some.  </p><p>They don’t speak much after that. They do and don’t need to. Alfie just learns over and presses his lips to her head. Grief is hard to quantify.</p><p> </p><p>Later, Maria says, “I have to tell Polly. At least.” She shifts out from under his arm.</p><p>“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”</p><p>He considers her offer for a moment, then decides, “No, it’s alright. Tell them all, if you need to. Just make sure they keep that secret – it’s not to be discussed.” His eyes drill into her as he says this. Maria’s throat tightens; she feels heavy all over. “The Ukrainians have to pay for this.”</p><p>Alfie leans back, seemingly at ease again. “They will.”</p><p>“We need a plan.”</p><p>Alfie nods, “We do.”</p><p>“How did they get to you?”</p><p>He scratches at his beard gingerly, “I’m in Small Heath to meet Tommy. Supply details. They caught Olly and me on our way to the meeting place. Dragged me here.”</p><p>“I’ve seen you beat men half to death. There is no way they just dragged you here.” Maria leans back and considers him, following through on her earlier suspicion, “You let them?”</p><p>A tight half-smile flickers across his face: “Calculated risk, ain’t it? You don’t fuck over an enemy until you know what they want. If they were going to beat me in Small Heath –”</p><p>“You thought it would be Tommy.”</p><p>“It seemed more probable.” He leans forward to run a finger up her wrist as he says this, gently tracing a line from her wrist to thumb. She’s not sure if the movement is meant to allay her supposed anger at his suspecting Tommy. She isn’t angry, per se – she’d have suspected a retaliation herself. Except it wasn’t Tommy. They have new enemies, it seems.</p><p>“We need to determine if Sabini has ties to the Ukrainians.”</p><p>“Epsom was a riot. The Slavic quarters don’t fraternize, but it caused a lot of upset. Enough that Sabini could have set them on our tail.”</p><p>“I thought as much.”</p><p>They still haven’t addressed the biggest elephant in the room. Perhaps they’re both afraid. Enemies and personal slights abound in their world. The issue is not the threat – or implied threat – but the nature of it. Tommy and his alliance with the Camden gang hasn’t been threatened. They – she and Alfie – have.  He’s been placed on their doorstep at precisely the moment she’s home. The certificate, tangible, undeniable proof that she and Alfie have loved one another, has been found.</p><p>Maria knows what they have to do. But they will need to be careful. So very careful.</p><p> </p><p>After a while of planning, Maria at last goes to see Polly. She’s at her usual seat in the family meeting room, sipping what Maria assumes is rum. She feels leaden as she leans against the doorway, blinking hazily at her aunt.</p><p>Polly’s hand stills with the tumbler glass halfway to her mouth. “Quite a connection you two have. I might even call it love.” The words are meant to be damning but all Maria can do is chuckle grimly.</p><p>Polly’s gaze turns indignant, “This is dangerous Maria.”</p><p>“If you’re going to explain that I ought to be smarter… don’t. I won’t explain myself to you, Pol.”</p><p>“Do you think your cleverness absolves you from your responsibilities towards this family Maria? They dropped him on our godforsaken doorstep! If you don’t find a way to solidify –”</p><p>“If you’re proposing what I think you are, stop. That’s never happening.”</p><p>Polly sighs, “Holy shit, Maria, it’s not nearly so bad. You’d be protected. And free to love him. Not slinking around the place like a pair of children.”</p><p>Maria shakes off her stupor, and assesses her aunt with clear eyes. She’s been too reckless. Forgotten that Polly, especially, is always watching. She switches tack, “The men who beat Alfie?”</p><p>     Polly takes a leisurely sip, and makes her wait. Maria is too tired to resist. Let Pol think she’s the matriarch here. (She most definitely is their matriarch, though). Finally, Polly speaks, “We’ve got them.”</p><p>“Tommy and the lot?”</p><p>“I’ve made sure they have elsewhere to be, at least for a while.”</p><p>“Good.” Maria is <em>not </em>going to thank her. She hates being policed. She takes a seat and says it, the words she’s been dreading.</p><p>“Pol, listen. Seriously.”</p><p>Polly shifts, puts down her glass, folds her hands together. “I’m listening.”</p><p>Glad to have her understanding, or at least part of it, Maria studiously picks at her fingernails as she begins narrating, giving words to this most odious tale, one she hates so very much.</p><p>“It was right after the war that I realised I was pregnant. About five months along. I was lucky, Alfie had been my last deployment. Made it easier to find him.” It was odd, framing him like that, like a task, but assisting in his trench <em>had</em> been her last assignment. Sort of.  And if Polly was interjecting, was having any sort of reaction to the news, she didn’t notice. Maria could only hear and feel her own melancholy.</p><p>“So the cot –”</p><p>But Maria doesn’t care for Polly’s inquires, she just wants to get the worst of it out, out of her mouth and into the stale air, <em>out. </em>“I gave birth. The child died ten days later.”</p><p>There was a riotous bang, some movement and then – bewilderment. She was bewildered, because Polly had her arms around her and was commiserating in soft, understanding tones, and when was the last time someone other than Alfie had held her? And of course, <em>of course </em>Polly understood. She had lost her children as well. She knew that pain. Maria leaned gingerly back into her aunt’s embrace. No tears fell, but she felt… lighter, somehow. She continued her tale in a slightly croaky voice, “We filed a death certificate in a far-off county. Didn’t hide our names – that felt wrong. But now the Ukrainians know, somehow, and, and, and – I think we’ll have to burn it. We’ll have to burn it.”</p><p>Then it was just Polly holding her and her repeating those words,<em> we’ll have to burn it, we’ll have to burn it. </em>And with it, burn to ash any sense that she’d ever had a son; ever been someone’s mother.</p><p> </p><p>Alfie has to stay with them, Polly declares, at least until they’re certain it is safe for him to return to London. Maria doesn’t even bother pretending she has any intention of not sharing a room with him. Polly allows it, possibly because Tommy and the others won’t return until tomorrow. But who is she kidding – it’s the news of the child that softens Polly’s stance, of course.</p><p>That night, they lie on her bed and words are difficult.</p><p>Maria remembers it, of course, remembers how the trepidation and happiness of holding a mewling new-born had turned to horror no less than ten days later, when suddenly the child wasn’t breathing. They got a doctor immediately – it didn’t help, poor thing died anyway, and the bastard doctor wasn’t particularly sympathetic, maybe because the act of miscegenation was too severe for him to overlook, even in the face of a dead baby and two grieving parents.</p><p>She hadn’t done anything wrong – he’d been delivered naturally and was breathing steadily – no hacking coughs, no strange cries. At yet, he’d died.</p><p>If Maria was a religious person, she might have said it was her fault, a blackness attached to her that had spread to and infected her only child. She asks Alfie as much, when they’re lying on their sides in bed, facing each other, so close that their breaths waft into one another’s faces. His breath is minty, hers smelling of the tea she’d drank earlier, before he’d turned up on their doorstep. Now for the question. She reaches for him as she asks it, coming to rest her hand on his cheek. “Do you think it was my fault? That we did something wrong? Paid for our sins?”</p><p>Alfie seems at a loss; his brow is furrowed so heavily it looks permanently indented. “The only creed I believe in is an eye for an eye, Maria. You know that.”</p><p>“And is our boy one of those eyes?”</p><p>He sounds infinitely defeated, “I… don’t know. My God takes things. He took our boy, too. Was it… was it because of my many lurid acts, recompense for everyone I ever killed? Possibly. But that God sent me into the trenches, into that godforsaken war. How could the same God punish without respite…” he trails off and mumbles something in Yiddish. Maria leans back a bit and watches it. With cold air steaming from his lips as he whispers some prayer-like mantra of loss, he looks like an almost idol-like figure. Some undefinable feeling shifts inside her.</p><p>Maria wishes fervently she didn’t feel so detached from her anguish, that she could feel some greater reaction and start wailing madly or at least grow angry. And not the deep anger she already felt at the Ukrainians, that was only surface level. No, she meant the type of anger Polly had felt when Tommy had barred her from seeing her only son Michael. Unfettered hatred.  “Do you think we would change for him?” Alfie says suddenly, pivoting back onto his side to face her, angling his head even closer towards her, with so little space between them they’re practically kissing.</p><p>On this she has a certain answer. Would she have loved the child? Yes. Would she have changed her nature, surrendered her bloodlust for it? Memory comes to her in flashes. The remembrance of vehemence coursing through her; a knife plunging in a side with an anguished cry, glinting even in the dim light of a living room. Flesh splitting open like a shirt torn asunder, blood seeping out, and twitching, so much violent twitching, as though that person’s limbs were trying to violently exit the body housing them. And satisfaction – the satisfaction no child should ever feel at death, and yet, she had felt. She knows what she is.</p><p>“No.” She damns herself, “I’m not sure we’d have changed, not even for him. Maybe you could. I… doubt I would.”</p><p>Alfie laughs thinly, “Ah, Maria. Always so uncompromising, even to yourself, eh, love?”</p><p>Her eyes start to drift closed, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”</p><p>The bed shifts under her with the deep weight of the resounding sigh he lets out.</p><p>He pulls her closer still. “Don’t be. Don’t be.”</p><p>Then he says, even though they know she probably won’t believe him, not the way that he believes himself, “You did nothing wrong.”</p><p>______</p><p>Maria supposes she’ll have to tell her family next. To say she derives little joy from the task is an understatement, if ever there was one. Polly offers to do it for her, but she’s resolute. They deserve to hear it from her. John and Arthur have predictable reactions; hugs abound. Arthur is especially teary, and makes her swear up and down that she’s alright. Where Arthur had been slightly teary Ada full on sobs, and stares at her as though she has somehow bettered her reputation, as though she’s a <em>hero</em>. Maria rather feels that it’s her boy, who had struggled and won the right to live for ten days, that is the hero. Ultimately, it’s Tommy’s reaction that makes her nervous. She calls him in after she’s spoken to John, Arthur and Ada (Finn she does not tell – he’s a boy, let him remain one for a while longer), and seats Tommy at the now too-small desk where they had used to play chess, for yet another game of chess. It’s only once they’re halfway through the game that she begins her tale. She delivers it the same as she had with Polly, and with less emotion. “You want to know where I was after the war?”</p><p>“If you want to tell me, I do.”</p><p>“I was pregnant.” To his credit, he has a stellar non-reaction, pausing with a rook still clasped between his fingers. He doesn’t even blink! Cold bastard.</p><p>“The child died. And yes, it was Alfie’s.”</p><p>Tommy seems at a loss, which is a first.</p><p>After a few minutes deliberation he swallows hard and says, in an almost reverent tone, “I’m sorry this happened, Maria. Thank you for telling me. Are… I’m sure you’ll hate this question, but are you alright?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“And you and Solomons?”</p><p>Maria decides to be honest, “It was hard, then. We’d had plans. But I was right to come home, and he was right to stay in Camden. Besides, I wanted to run my own dealings. Now I do.”</p><p>“Jesus, Maria, that’s not what I’m asking?”</p><p>“The fuck are you asking Tommy? If it hurt? Do you think we fucking laughed at it, at losing our son?”</p><p>He sees her bristling and takes a different path, “Do you want to be a mother now?”</p><p>This she can answer with surety. “No. I didn’t then either. I was willing to be one for my boy, but no, it’s never been an aspiration of mine.”</p><p>“I thought as much. And he’s just alright with it?”</p><p>“If he wants children, he’ll have to fuck someone else, won’t he?”</p><p>Her brashness surprises Tommy; she can’t help it; she doesn’t want to reveal so much about Alf to someone he barely likes.</p><p>Tommy guesses incorrectly for once, “So he does?”</p><p>Maria hums noncommittally, “I’m not going to tell you that. Just know we’ve settled it.</p><p>As it turns out, Alfie does <em>not</em> want children, has never particularly wanted them. But Maria wants desperately to keep some of Alfie from Tommy, even if she must conceal it through a smokescreen. Let Tommy reach his conclusions; this is her secret to keep. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>